Kingsfoil
by InTruth
Summary: Faramir faces the aftermath of his excursion Denethor's rage. Somewhat AU, fairly intense, some suggestiveness.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing created by JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinemas or anyone else who was lucky enough to be involved in the creation of this magnificent universe._

**Kingsfoil**

The wedding of Denethor, newly appointed Steward of Gondor, to Finduilas of Dol Amroth was in many ways a foreboding occasion. Though theirs was a union long in the making, the agreement harking back nearly to the day of Finduilas's birth, both participants had set eyes upon one other only twice- on the day of their formal betrothal and at the wedding of the old Steward's youngest brother. Though the memory of each had been lavished with praise and adulation before the other, and certainly neither opposed the match, it was with an increasing sense of uneasiness that Denethor and Finduilas both approached their marriage.

To complicate matters, the wedding was forced to occur on a week to the day following the unexpected death of the old Steward, Denethor's father. Ecthelion had been a robust and healthy man in his youth, but he had grown rather weak and prone to illness as he advanced in years and without warning had collapsed one morning while holding court. With ceremonial plans so irreversibly set forth, Denethor was ultimately appointed Steward and married within a span of days. Any time the new husband and wife might have had to study and adjust to each other was intruded upon by the harsh reality inflicted by matters of court and country. To his unpleasant surprise, Denethor rapidly found that the position for which he had been groomed from birth was indescribably more difficult than he had ever imagined, now that the chair of the Steward was officially his to occupy.

For her part, Finduilas was hardly bereft of attention. Gifts, honors and tokens of esteem arrived daily in veritable floods of formality and well wishing. Little work was actually required of her person (certainly, she was supplied with maids and ladies-in-waiting enough to dispel any real obligation for her participation,) but in the days and weeks following her marriage Finduilas found herself beset with a curious ache of loss she could not explain, and she fought to fill her sudden sadness with furious occupation. Late at night, however, alone because the Steward was nearly continuously called upon, Finduilas found she could explore the frigid cavern inside her with almost tactile clarity. What she discovered, to her severe confusion and anxiety, was an entire realm of hopeless homesickness, a malady no amount of love and living could ever satiate, and Finduilas knew she would never fully escape it.

But in spite of the copious, seemingly insurmountable challenges, Denethor and Finduilas forged a path for themselves. They slowly came to love one another, first finding friendship, then passion, then a deep caring and understanding that they each knew would never shatter. One year after their wedding, Finduilas gave birth to a strong, healthy son they named Boromir, and Gondor rejoiced.

Two months after this, Finduilas set out with Boromir and an entourage, planning a short visit to Dol Amroth. It was the first time she would return to her home since the day of her marriage, and brimming with eager energy she spurred her horse to as swift a gait as her attendants would allow.

Within sight of the tower, not five meters outside the city walls, Finduilas's horse stumbled hard on a small pit concealed in the brush and fractured a foreleg. Blinded by pain, maddened with shock, the horse reared wildly and Finduilas, clawing frantically at her reigns, slipped off his back just as his strong foreleg thundered to the earth.

Five months later she returned to Minas Tirith, still recovering from a shattered arm and vicious infections inflicted by razor-sharp hooves. But even after every healer the court could muster had proclaimed her well, she remained pale and wistful, and something invisible seemed to eat at her from within. She resumed her political duties as before and no stranger would say she seemed at ill health, but those who knew her well, and Denethor most of all, saw a dark change in Finduilas for which no remedy seemed to exist.

She was remained beset by this strange whim as she carried and gave birth to their second son, Faramir. This pregnancy was difficult and tense and she barely carried to term, struggling in labor for countless torturous hours. Mother and son hovered by death for weeks, and the Citadel was shadowed with their plight. Denethor sat constant vigil by his wife's bedside, mopping her pallid brow and murmuring to her of their future together. Of his second son he held a reasonable concern, but even when the boy took a swift turn for the worse he did not relinquish his steady post from Finduilas's side.

On the first day of spring, Finduilas awoke, and Faramir's constant fever finally abated. Joy broke out in the city, and the tale happily was told of how the young Lord Boromir had run into his mother's sickroom and, on seeing her well, cried out "Mother! You are alive again!" Finduilas and her infant began to slowly recover, at a rate so exactly equal their nurses called it a miracle of the Elves, though eventually Faramir, possessed as was natural by the intrinsic vitality of youth, slipped ahead of his comrade in healing.

The next years, though by rights they should have been bountiful and happy, saw many shadows fall upon the kingdom of Gondor and her Steward. The perpetual fight on the eastern front deteriorated rapidly toward the enemy's favor as vicious, merciless orc raidings crept further and further into Ithilien. Trade with the west remained solid, but the merchants raised their prices citing difficulty in travel, and the quality of local produce seemed to be steadily falling. Denethor was repeatedly forced to muster higher taxes to provide for the army he had bolstered in protection of his city. There was unhappiness in Minas Tirith, not a restlessness but a kind of depression that Denethor saw mirrored daily in the eyes of his wife.

For Finduilas had never again been as robust in her health as she had before Faramir's birth. She had recovered fully, that was true, but the ordeal seemed to have leeched away the last of her immunities. Often now, she would be confined to her rooms with a fever or a chill, and small exertions that she had never before noticed would drain her utterly of strength. But as with all things, this too became a matter of course in the Citadel, and although Finduilas was still quite young, it was generally thought that her childbearing years were completed.

And so it came as some surprise when it was announced that the Lord and Lady of the Citadel were expecting another child, though the news was certainly welcomed with joy. "A lovely little girl this time," murmured the commonwomen as they browsed the morning produce. "With an easy term for Her Ladyship." And though of course there was some concern for Finduilas among the people, they largely trusted that their Steward would go to any lengths to preserve the wellbeing of his wife.

And Denethor did so, but this time Finduilas was beyond any art of healing. She delivered far too early, to a tiny infant girl she named "Asëa." Several desperate, terrible minutes later, a wail of hardest grief broke through the White Tower, and Finduilas's passing became known in the city.

From that time on, it was generally accepted that a black spirit of loss had entered Denethor, and much of the mercy that had characterized his rule before Finduilas's death vanished. He became cold and stern, a just Steward still, but wielding a colder, sharper justice than that of the man who had loved Finduilas. More unsettling yet, Denethor seemed to rapidly adopt a vicious grudge against his second son, Faramir. Although he never acknowledged this, it was quite evident that Denethor hefted a large portion of culpability for Finduilas's death on the boy and though many could not bring themselves to fault their Steward for this, several shrewed-minded denizens of Minas Tirith were to be heard quietly muttering that such animosity would most surely bring doom to their realm.

The daughter, Asëa, struggled in life for many months before she triumphed, though she was ever pale and quite prone to sickness. The city adopted her as a daughter of their own, lovingly dubbing her "the Little Lady of the Citadel," and flooding the nursery with an endless flow of gifts. Denethor embraced the girl with an attention brushing obsession, at first attending her in every free moment his political dealings allowed. Her brothers, Boromir and Faramir, took instantly to Asëa and protected her staunchly against oncoming hordes of imagined orcs, trolls, dragons and other evil things whose only intent was to rip away their fair maiden and devour her whole.

And for ten precious, blissful years, Asëa was kept safe.

* * *

_My word, this got long! More to come..._


	2. Meditation

_Disclaimer: I own nothing affiliated at all with JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate, Peter Jackson, or New Line Cinemas. Trust me._

_Author's Note: I'm sorry this is so late in coming. I was on vacation, and you know how it is. But I was thinking of it the whole time!_

**Meditation**

It was morning in Minas Tirith, and the city awoke to spring.

It was a subtle, gentle spring, like a sleepy whisper before a dream or the tickling promise of a kiss. It was a still, innocent spring, quiet with hope, though the streets and walls of the city were yet marred with the violence of the winter so newly past. Deep, treacherous cracks ran like rivers through the cobblestones and every visible surface, each face and window, was bleached and wan with the weight of hard months. Reparation disputes climbed rapidly common as the damage grew steadily more apparent, and increasingly the Steward was called upon to settle these inevitable arguments.

But spring had come, however silently, and that certainly none disputed. From the earliest rising of the merest baker's boy to eventual awakenings in the wealthiest quarters, the joyful awareness seemed to dance in the very air. Shutters were flung open, kerchiefs loosened, woolen coats discarded by the height of the day. Chatter and happy energy frolicked in the streets with the children, and many a grateful mother was to be seen standing still and silent, reveling in the sun's warmth and giving ineffable thanks for the long-awaited renewal.

The vigor and excitement swept throughout the city, caressing every hovel, every corner, every cupboard in streets and castle alike. Every room was filled with the effervescent aura, the fresh, clean, perfect life of spring.

Every room, save one.

* * *

Of all her qualities, Asëa of Gondor was, foremost, a contented child. The treasured, ever-petted daughter of the Steward of Gondor, she could easily have grown accustomed to having her every desire met in moments, learning by example that her whims were her birth-granted due. Had she developed thus, surely no one would have had cause for surprise; or more unthinkable yet, to blame her for it. Young Lords were expected to be solid of mind and were trained rigorously in their duties to their state, but Ladies obligations ran a course far more vague, and on some small level the citizens of Gondor even expected them to be spoiled.

But the Little Lady of the Citadel was an unexpectedly diffident and unassuming child. Perhaps it was partly borne from the abundance of attention and possession that was supplied to her so liberally from her birth, but it was a rare occasion indeed when anyone heard Lady Asëa call for anything more than a bit of water. Popular opinion proposed, among other theories, that her everpresent ill-being had provoked in her a tendency to appreciate the status quo, but had Asëa herself been queried, even she would have been hard pressed to provide an adequate answer.

But on this day, this first day of spring, as she stood in the white stone window of her drawing room, Asëa found herself possessed by a yearning so profound she could scarcely express it. It was greater, she supposed, than anything she had ever wanted anything at all before, and likely ever would again. Standing perfectly still in the bright crevice of the enormous window, watching the wonders of the new season unfold with pristine steadiness, Asëa suddenly discovered within herself a searingly fervent desire to be out of doors, and see and feel and taste this miraculous spring with her own person.

How pungent the irony then, for this was the single thing she could not have. Over her ten short years, the healers of the Citadel had, on the unyielding orders of Denethor her father, taken careful study on the natures of Asëa's frequent indisposes. To simply deem her fragile of health and await the day she succumbed to a simple fever would not be brooked with the Steward, and any possible measure of prevention hypothesized by the healers, however feeble, was instituted immediately. Foremost among these precautions was the suggestion (later to become an order) that the young Lady be exposed to as little of the outside airs as possible. The reasoning of the healers struck well with the Steward, as they proposed that the unpredictable humors and currents in fresher air often held ailments that did not effect the sturdy of constitution; but for one as delicate as the Lady Asëa, they might prove severely detrimental. And so, thus encouraged, Denethor lovingly forbid his daughter from ever emerging from the smooth, ancient walls of the Citadel.

So it had been for years beyond her memory, until one heather-heaven summer evening in her eighth year. Following a stretch of several months of vibrant health and (as her brothers had to their discomfort and amusement witnessed) lively verbal petitions on Asëa's behalf by her Grandmother, Denethor had reluctantly consented to allow his daughter a short outing to the garden below her window. Though the success of the small endeavor had attributed to other, broader ventures, the memory of that evening still stood particularly sweet in Asëa's mind. Should she stand in one thousand Elven gardens, she thought, lavender would never again seem so ripe.

Thrice more she had ventured out of doors that summer, and once for a few short moments in autumn. From winter she remained prohibited, but this caused her little grief as regardless, she had always rather preferred to observe the cold-wrought majesty from the more temperate vantage point of her window. Her error, as she considered it, and what she blamed for her unfulfilled longings on this day, had come on a silver spring morning the following year. Buoyed by her triumphs in summertime and enraptured by the beauty of the day, she had spent hours in fervent pleading with the Steward, imploring him to grant her an excursion, however brief. She had ignored, to her later despair, the dregs of a chill she had concealed from her father, and the knowledge that in truth, on that day she was too fragile for an outing. Confronted with her ceaseless longing, Denethor had allowed her a small visit to her garden, and Asëa's joy, for a few short hours, was boundless.  
But she had taken very ill after that day, and scarcely recovered in time for Midsummer. Following this, Asëa had been forbidden once again from outside exposure, without any word spoken on Denethor's behalf, or any protestations from his daughter.

But on this first day of spring, something deeper than expression had spoken to the Little Lady of the Citadel. She stood in her window as one in a trance, swaying in time with the breeze that swept around her fragile form. Mild green eyes misted with longing, slender lips smoothed in a half smile, Asëa strengthened her soul, decision made, and stepped back out of her window.

* * *

Faramir, second son of the Steward, sat in solemn silence on the sawdust floor of the inner practice chambers. His eyes were lightly shut, his breath even and steady as he focused on his shadowed surroundings. He listened, keen ears absorbing every birdcall, every clod of hoof, every muffled shout from distant trainings. He listened, and he layered his perceptions in careful tiers of significance. Faramir waited with meticulously groomed patience, anticipating any shift in cadence or new element which would signify his tutor's attempts to unnerve or avoid him.

At this time, Faramir had seen fifteen winters, and the bulk of his instruction had marked him for a scout of Ithilien. His elder brother Boromir had been trained as a captain of war, an unrivaled, fearless champion of every range of battle. But though to a blunted eye these realms of combat may have been perceived as unapproachable separate (and indeed, this was the manner in which the boys tutors wished their father the Steward to understand them) the brothers themselves were constantly impressed with the importance and need of the other's position and talents in order for their own to succeed. Due to the scrupulous instruction of their tutors, Boromir and Faramir had each grown into their abilities imbued with a respect bordering reverence for the work that his brother was to do, and this in turn contributed the renowned and admired love between them. At Faramir's birth, many had expected them to become naught but bitter rivals, but despite the three-year distance in their ages and Denethor's painfully blatant favoritism of the elder, the young Lords of Gondor held a friendship and love envied by mothers all across their realm.

Enveloped in his training, anticipating at any moment a beguiling ruse from Master Ilhiar, Faramir started and sprang to his feet as an utterly unperceived hand fell upon his shoulder. His heart thundered in his chest as he blinked in the sudden light, gasping in surprise, and only when he had recognized the intruder could he begin to slow his racing pulse.

"Asëa," he said with a rueful flush. "Why in Valar's name are you here?" He studied his sister as he calmed, taking in with sudden consternation her crimson riding cloak and hood. "Whatever were you thinking of?"

Asëa gazed back at him, an iron resolution he had never before seen burning in her eyes. "Faramir," she whispered. "You… you must take me outside."

Beset by sudden concern, he knelt down before her so their eyes were level. Asëa blinked, and then met his steady view, eager desperation lighting her pale face. He did not need to voice the reasoning why what she asked was impossible- every objection was written before her. "Please, Faramir," she said. "Please. I can't explain myself, I don't understand it, but the spring is calling to me! I'm not ill," she cried desperately, anticipating his rejection, "I'm perfectly well. Ask Barais, she'll tell you-"

A sudden, irrepressible smile grew on her brother's face. "Does Barais know you've left your rooms?" he chuckled. When a bashful expression relaxed Asëa's features, he laughed louder. "Good gracious little sister, how did you escape her? It must have been perianweed to make old hound sleep so late!"

"Of course not," she sniffed with feigned insult. "Merely a bit of dozey in her tea this morning." And she began to giggle with her brother.

When their laughter had sobered, Faramir put his hands on her shoulders. "Now," he said softly, meeting her eyes with piercing earnesty. "What's all this about running to the spring?" Asëa hesitated, and then spoke slowly, so quietly Faramir could scarcely hear her. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know. But when I woke this morning, the spring so… so real, it seemed like a friend calling out to me. As if…" she cast about her, seeking some feeble definition to christen her turmoil. "As if it were Mother." Her eyes beseeched him, sparkling with tears like molten crystal, her face effervescent with longing.

Moments passed, and Faramir was silent. Then slowly, he rose. His hand remained gripped on her shoulder. "Well then," he said, his voice tinged with living grief, "We must go and find Mother."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	3. Journeys

_Disclaimer: Save as previous chapters._

**Journeys**

The wind that swept the expanses of the northern Pelennor was sweet and cool, flowing around Faramir and his sister like a river of Elven wine. They flew like spirits across the plain, the hooves of Faramir's loyal Dasean seeming to scarcely graze the earth as he thundered into realms chartered only by the soul. Upon his back, Asëa settled against her brother, downy head sloping on his shoulder as her eyes gazed steadily forth at a destination she could not define. She did not smile, but an air of peace seemed to radiate from her fragile form like the earliest whispers of dawn.

Faramir cradled her protectively, the echoes of disquiet in his ears eased by Asëa's steady, untroubled breath. Dasean's reins were draped loosely in his right hand for they were not needed; the horse seemed to follow the same beacon as Asëa. The spell (if that indeed was the source of these inexplicable yearnings) had only just begun to blossom to life within Faramir, though he had felt it set down roots as they left the ancient walls of Minas Tirith. He struggled against its subtle signal, straining the limits of a vigilance he had before only envied in his brother. He must keep awake, stay alert; he must _protect Asëa…_

But he fell in the fighting, fading into a dream of memory and mist for a time he could never measure. And when he woke, Dasean had folded his knees as if to sleep and the strains of a forgotten lullaby were fading in his ears.

Asëa had dismounted when the great horse knelt and now stood beside her brother, her entire being trembling with the ecstasy of sudden release. He turned to her slowly, studiously, blinking as the mortal world returned to focus. He met her eyes with his wondering gaze, confusion and joy and grief all melding into one question so enormous no words could encompass the answer. Instead, Asëa smiled at her brother and slipped her small hand into his calloused palm, gripping with a strength she could not possibly posses.

"Come, Faramir," she said softly. "We are here."

* * *

The heavens stretched above them, milky and bright as liquid pearl, swirling like curtains in nightwind. Gazing up at the vast blankness from the silken green carpet of the Pelennor, the siblings were at once everything and nothing at all, insignificant and utterly omnipotent in the world that suddenly they alone seemed to inhabit. 

They lay head to head, arms stretched behind them like angles to clasp each other's hands. Faramir could feel the beat of Asëa's soothing pulse through the heat of her scalp, the echoing flutter in her palms. Their chests rose and fell, their hearts beat in unison until it seemed to Faramir that they were one single, ageless entity, a flow of warmth sustained by love and sweet ache of loss. Memory slipped through them, floating through the air like motes of silver dust.

It was a gift they were given, though neither understood it. A gift designed for healing, granted by forces greater than they could imagine, forces that preceded Middle-Earth and would prevail beyond it as well.

Such ancient powers as these were not often moved by the trials of mortals. They had seen greater pain by far, had felt its acrid bite, and knew they would again. Their solemn duty left scant space for mercy or indulgence; the course of life was tradition for them, and each thread would meet its ordained destiny.

To sympathy, however, these beings were not impervious. Even the smallest of creatures can humble the highest king in honest need, and such was the sorrow of Finduilas of Dol Amroth that a modest leniency was granted her soul. Ten years to the day after her death, the children who lived bereft of her memory would be called to receive a comfort from their absent mother.

It was on the first day of spring that Finduilas had died, and in a field of _Asëa Aranion_, in the northern Pelennor that she had taken the first fall that led to her death.

Faramir and Asëa knew nothing of this; but as the spell lifted from them, they found themselves imbued of memory they had never known, nor could fully explain. They did not speak of it, only recognized the new completion in the other's eyes and silently acknowledged the change.

The gift had been given. It was theirs to do with what they would.

* * *

"Faramir," said Asëa softly, shifting to her stomach the better to see her brother. "Faramir, where do you think we are?" She spoke not from worry but idle wonder, though as Faramir absorbed her logic he rose to his knees, frowning in thought. He ran a hand across the supple green beneath them, seeing for the first time that it was not grass but a bed of small, soft leafs. Asëa studied him quietly, caressing a fragment between her pale fingers. She did not ask, but he answered her all the same. 

"Athelas. The little plant from bed rhymes. I recognize it somehow."

"Athelas? How strange," she murmured. "Barais told me it never grew in Gondor."

"No… I hadn't thought it did."

It is an odd occurrence of life that whenever a piece of knowledge seems new, or novel, or particularly worthy of attention, the resultant excitement is so thrilling a sensation that it eliminates every other possible thought from consciousness and quickly induces a sensation of well-deserved exhaustion. It was this phenomenon, coupled with the soothingly soporific effects of the Athelas that swiftly and without warning swept the Steward's younger children into a deep and satisfying sleep. When they awoke, the sky was a vivid hue of violet, members of the Tower Guard were urging them into consciousness. Hoofs clod near their ears, and the grim visages adorning once friendly faces sparked an inexplicable dread in Faramir and his sister.

* * *

The gift given was indeed a blessing; but as with all things, it needed only the slightest of missteps to become a curse. _

* * *

I know how sad this is going to sound, but I'm quite hungry right now and have misplaced my self control- please, if you like this story at all, or (gulp) even if you don't, please leave a review. Anything, even a tiny line to say that I got the geography of the Pelennor wrong or something. It's just that I've been building this story in my head for quite a while now, and it's gotten so that I really can't tell anymore if what I am writing is decent or copycat swill. I will write it no matter what, but trust me- the more impetus I have, the better it will be. _

_Yours in vague embarrassment,_

_InTruth_


	4. Ordeal

_Disclaimer: Same as previous chapters._

_Author's Note: I am so sorry this is late… Summer is insane._

**Ordeal**

The Steward's dining chamber was considered to be something of an anomaly amidst the characteristic austerity of the Citadel. Though the walls and floor were of the same impassive white stone as the rooms around it, generations of Steward's wives and daughters had draped the frugality with bright, warm tapestries and banners. A soft, inviting rug shielded small feet from the cold stone floor, and the dais and door were carefully carved cherry wood. One magnificent window was set into the wall behind the Steward's place, lending light and a splendid view to all who repasted there.

But on this night, the chamber was heavy with gloom and foreboding. The window had been obscured with heavy drapes, shunning the last of the sunset's illumination and spilling motes of dust into the air. Two small torches had been lit to alleviate the darkness, but they provided less light than shadow. Denethor sat like a regal, tempered thunderstorm at the head of his table. Boromir, the eldest, sat on his right, Faramir at his left. All three clasped clenched hands upon the table, waiting in harsh, unyielding silence.

Faramir sat frozen with dread, though his face yielded no clue to his thoughts. Across the narrow table, Boromir struggled mutely to catch his brother's eye, but Faramir dared not raise his gaze from his fists. He felt the iron fury building inside his father as though it were a physical presence that fed on fear and silence. An image came to him of waves like daggers, roiling and thrashing in a wild, sterile tempest. He was a raft upon that deadly sea, and struggle though he might, he could not imagine any escape from the crushing death that pounded all around him.

The chamber door opened with an ominous creak. Asëa, freshly clad in clean white robes, cheeks bright pink from hurried scrubbing, stumbled into the room as though from behind she had been given a slight, anxious shove. She approached her father and kissed his extended hand, though Denethor did not look at her.

Given no further sign, Asëa hesitantly took her accustomed place besides Faramir. Her brother could feel her trembling beside him, could see the tears in her eyes without looking at her face. He knew she was biting her lips to keep silent, to restrain the apologies and pleadings and wails thrashing inside her. But Faramir did not turn his head to share her torment, did not dare even acknowledge her fragile presence.

It was a decision that would haunt him long past that night, far into years and a future he could not yet imagine.

* * *

The clatter of knifes and dishes, the crack of pits and bones echoed tauntingly in the long, angry chamber.

For Boromir, a man who despite his relative youth had seen and served in several clashes of arms, it was a cacophony more terrible than any battle. He had returned from an unusually long day spent in rigorous combat training, arriving at his chambers in the Citadel bruised and sweating but euphoric at the day's success. He was late for the evening meal, but reasoned hazily as he eased into a scalding soak that his father would surely pardon his tardiness as he recounted the adventures of the afternoon.

Boromir had not felt the fearful hush pervading through the Citadel, nor had he seen the worry creasing the faces of the serving-men. He winced now, recalling his jovial words of apology as he had entered the dining hall, remembering the look of shock and violation on Denethor's face as his exclamations reverberated on the pale stone. Faramir's back was rigid, Asëa nowhere to be seen, the table bare. Boromir sat stiffly, anxiety cresting within him, and waited for an explanation that was never offered.

Now he ate mechanically, his concentration focused on each of his younger siblings in turn. Why would they not meet his eyes? Why was Faramir's posture so grim, and why did Asëa's fingers tremble so on her knife? What could have possibly occurred to elicit such a reaction? Searching his memory, Boromir could not recall so oppressive and terrible a meal since the time of his mother's death, and the realization stabbed an icy dagger of fear and foreboding into his heart.

Boromir was not a man accustomed to emotions related to cowardice, and the shock of such feeling sparked a flame of indignation. He set down his utensils and turned to his father, ready to demand, if not a halt, a credence for this unnatural and unnerving behavior. Before he had opened his mouth, however, Denethor turned sharply to his younger son and acknowledged his presence for the first time that evening. His voice was cold as death, as hard and cruel as the mountain passes over Imladris. Despite himself, Boromir shuddered at the sound of that ruthless tone.

"Well, Faramir," his father said, words measured and even, and falling like lead into still water. "By accounts, you have been strangely occupied this day."

Faramir did not flinch from Denethor's gaze, but he did not respond.

"I have heard that you went out to the Pelennor. I have heard that you left your lessons to pursue…" Here, the Steward paused. He seemed to weigh his choice of words, to select the most delicately cruel phrasing he could conjure. "To pursue entertainments in the fields." Boromir looked sharply at his brother, but still Faramir did not appear to react.

Asëa however, could no longer restrain herself. Tears spilled over from brimming eyes, and her voice cracked with terror and desperation. "Please, Father! Please, it- it was my error. I asked him to take me to the plain, I begged him, he didn't want to, I-"

Denethor raised an unquestioned hand, his eyes not leaving Faramir. Asëa fell silent, gulping her words, though she did not stop her tears and her shoulders shook with silent sobs.

"Faramir," Denethor continued as though there had been no interruption, though an edge of impatience that only his children would recognize now lined his words. "Did you go to the Pelennor today?"

This time, Faramir answered. "Yes, Father."

"And why did you go out?"

"I… Dasean has been stiff of late, Father. I wanted to give him a proper exercise."

"I see. And did you speak to the horsemaster on this matter? Or do you consider your own opinion more shrewd than that of this man of Rohan, who has lived his life among horse-kind and likely has more than a drop of stallion blood in his veins?"

Boromir flinched at this display of crudity in Asëa's presence, but he dared not speak. He saw his brother swallow, but his voice was steady as he answered. "With all respect to Master Édeos, Father, I know my horse very well. Édeos knows this, and I did not think he would object."

There was a pause as Denethor took a sip of wine. His eyes closed, and he seemed to savor the taste for several moments before swallowing. Boromir risked a swift, questioning glance at Faramir; Faramir responded with a look of warning and a tiny shake of his head before snapping his gaze back to the Steward.

Boromir was entirely perplexed. Faramir had abandoned his lessons for an excursion- that much was clear, but it did not explain Denethor's fury. Boromir had run off himself from time to time, to visit the city or relax on the Pelennor, but his father had never bothered himself with such petty misdemeanors. If Asëa had indeed gone out with Faramir a reprimand would be understandable, but if she was well enough to attend evening meal, surely no harm had been done. Studying his sister with concern, Boromir rather thought that the state she had worked up to now was more detrimental than a jaunt on the plain, but he was no healer and kept his thoughts to himself.

And as for Denethor's insinuations against Faramir regarding their sister, Boromir refused to consider them. He knew his brother, better perhaps than anyone else, and that was enough.

Boromir was snapped from his contemplation as Denethor spoke again. "So you have no witnesses to prove that the intention of your excursion was solely to exercise your horse."

"No, Father. I do not."

"And were you alone, on this remedial trip of yours? Or were you accompanied by a…

friend?"

For the first time, Faramir hesitated. Boromir could sense him thinking frantically, weighing his options. _Lie, brother,_ he willed. _Tell him Asëa wasn't there, that she was trying to protect you. She'll follow you, and he won't punish her. Just this once, lie…_

But Faramir had taken a breath to steel himself, and spoke. "I was not alone Father, no. I took Asëa with me." Asëa gave a small whimper. Denethor raised his eyebrows in a silent, mocking question, and Faramir plunged on "She seemed restless. I know she isn't allowed out in spring, but the day was so mild I thought it harmless. She and Dasean get on very well, and I… I hated to see her so ill at ease…" He trailed off, waiting for the storm to break.

Denethor smiled thinly and turned to his daughter. "Is this so, Asëa? Does your brother speak the truth?" His voice was soft and mild, but danger lurked behind it like a snake among flowers. Asëa, wisely, did not look at Faramir for encouragement, but instead nodded once. "Yes, Father,"she whispered. Her face was dry now, but drawn with deep weariness and her eyes were rimmed with scarlet.

Boromir took quick stock of the fragile situation. A pause seemed to have been reached- surely they could end this now. If Denethor found it necessary, he could continue his interrogation the next morning, when perhaps his cold temper had subsided. For now Asëa her eyes glazed and heavy, should certainly be put to bed. But once again, Denethor began to speak before Boromir could voice his thoughts.

"What did you do on the plain, Asëa?"

She blinked sleepily. "Father? We… we rode Dasean. Faramir and I."

"Is that so? It seems to me that two riders would overburden for horse in need of a good run."

"Father, Asëa couldn't burden a new calf-" Faramir began, but Denethor thundered_ "Silence!"_ and he stopped.

"You were found splayed on the fields, sleeping." Denethor breathed, the furnace of his fury at last coaxed to its incendiary peak. "_Sleeping_! Like _animals_." He spat out the word, staring unblinking at his younger son. His words were not directed at his daughter- indeed, he seemed to have forgotten she was present- but she shuddered at every syllable, flinching as though lashed.

"Have you any explanation? Any excuse for your vile behavior, your violations on my daughter? _Speak!"_

A stunned silence fell in the chamber as Denethor's wild echo faded. He was breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his brow.

"Father," said Faramir hoarsely, voice shaking with grief and the effort to remain calm. "I have never touched her."

There was a long, terrible pause in which the world seemed to shrink down to this small, dark scene. The air was thick. Without warning, Denethor rose and left the room, the lovingly carved door slamming shut behind him. Boromir, Faramir and Asëa sat in empty silence.

The last torch guttered out.

* * *

To all reviewers: Thank you _so_ _much _for your kind words. They spur me like you can't even imagine. I know I have taken certain liberties with Tolkien's timeline, customs, etc, but please bear with me- this started as a little fact-less daydream, and though I have tried to adjust things so that they align properly with canon, some have to be sacrificed for this story. Aside from Asëa, it hasn't been too great of a difference, has it? 


	5. Exposure

_Disclaimer: Same old._

**Exposure**

The fires burned high in the Citadel that night, but the cold came regardless.

It crept like a bloodless assassin through the ancient stone walls, stealing into Denethor's chamber first, poised with frigid daggers of guilt and grief.

The Steward of Gondor slept uneasily, shivering and twisting beneath his thick covers. Evil dreams beset him, rife with memories and premonitions he could not escape. The face of Finduilas, his late wife rose up before him, her pale mouth working violently with words of warning he could not hear. Denethor felt her icy, pallid fists pounding his chest and twisting frantically into the cloth of his nightclothes, heard the whispers of her dead breath as she strained to make him understand. It was doom she spoke of, he knew, a doom that he and only he could dispel… milky tears leaked from his pale eyes, and his lips cracked and bled with his desperation; but he could not hear her.

* * *

Boromir was not asleep; nor in his rooms. The Steward's eldest son was in a dark, musty practice cube deep beneath the castle proper. It was a small area he had uncovered once as a boy, and though he suspected the older servants must surely know of it, he himself had never revealed its presence to anyone. Boromir escaped there when his emotions became too strong to dispel through force of mind. There, he would run through his most grueling sword patterns with weighted weapons, working himself until he was utterly spent and could rest without torment. This place was his haven, a personal citadel where the world was simpler, and the shedding of sweat seemed to rid him of his need for tears.

Tonight, his short, violent breaths escaped in steaming clouds, and his muscles ached as they grew warm in the shuddering chill. Boromir tumbled and twisted and spun, pushing himself again and again as he strained to banish the memory of the night's events from his mind. He turned sharply, striking viciously at one imagined opponent, then reversing and stabbing upwards into empty air-

But in his concentration, Boromir had not registered how near to the wall he fought. He slammed against the damp wood, blind momentum driving all the wind from his lungs. He sagged backwards and his knees folded beneath him; lying on his back, Boromir sucked ragged gasps into his parched throat, heaving and hacking for what seemed like an eternity before his breathing eased and he could muster the strength to drag himself to a sitting position.

His fresh sweat seemed to freeze as it leaked from his pores. He shuddered, both from the cold and some other inexplicable cause. Slowly, he collected himself and left the dank room.

For on this night, there was no sanctuary.

* * *

Faramir was sitting on the sill of his window when the unnatural chill reached him. It whistled around him, swooping and stabbing, taunting him with a freedom that would never be.

He closed his eyes; to the night, to the cold… to the world. He shrank down, pulled every sense inside, away from foreign touch.

The cold seemed to take offence; it came at him harder, sharper, faster. Anyone else sitting on that sill would have retreated in swift alarm, or at the least paused in alarm at the anomaly of that wintry ferocity on the early nights of spring.

But Faramir, cloaked in silence, hooded in guilt and anger, did not feel it. He did not move from his stone-like vigil until the eyelashes of the sun began to whisper of the horizon. Then, quietly, he stole back into his chamber and lay on his bed.

He yet had time for a few moments of rest.

* * *

All that night, Asëa lay still in her bed. She slept deeply but uneasily, and several times Barais rose to quiet the dreaming murmurs of her charge. Each time, she tucked the covers around the sleeping form, assuring herself that she was perfectly warm, so many firs and blankets, surely she would not feel this strange chill that seemed to have permeated the room…

But the cold was undeterred.

Towards the morning, Asëa began to shiver.


End file.
